I’ve realised a lot of this blog has been dedicated to my rollercoaster style mental health issues.
Here’s another one (sorry).
The past few weeks have thrown another volcano of bad news, anxiety and fear at me and I have to tell you, I did not handle it well at all.
Firstly, I heard the sad news that a lady I liked very much, passed away from metastatic breast cancer. She was a bit of a hero of mine. She dealt with her primary diagnosis with such style, bravery and a resolute attitude that cancer would not get in the way of her doing things that made her happy.
When I was diagnosed, she offered me advice and support. She sent me little care packages that cheered me up and talked me through some of the parts of treatment and surgery I was most frightened of. I’ll be eternally grateful for the compassion and understanding she shared with me.
Secondly, I had a couple of pretty awful appointments with the gynaecology/fertility team and I’m no further forward on the ‘will I ever be able to have a baby’ question. I did however, get a pretty stern talking to about my weight. The weight I gained during treatment and haven’t been able to lose because of the combination of tamoxifen, zoladex, gabapentin and antidepressants I’ve been taking since I was diagnosed (my love of cakes might have contributed a little too). I need to lose 2 stone before I can have my ovaries removed to reduce my risk of developing ovarian cancer. ‘Need to’. No suggestions as to how! My problem I guess. So now I’m not only nervous about the cancer side of things, I feel ashamed that I’ve allowed my weight to escalate to this level. Cue, lots of hiding in my room, having unexpected bouts of sobbing.
I also got my letter confirming my pre op assessment and my mastectomy surgery. I don’t know why this got to me so much. I’ve known about it for a few weeks but reading it on that weird beige NHS paper just hurtled me 2 years into my past and the crippling fear of what I’m about to go through grabbed me and shook me by the shoulders.
After the epic screw up with my antidepressants, I’m still waiting for my body to catch up and get back onto an even-ish keel.
The grand finale of stress happened last Tuesday morning. I got up, got showered, dressed and set up for work. I hadn’t driven for more than a few minutes and I began to feel frightened, this was quickly followed by an inability to get a breath. My hands started shaking and I felt out of control. I pulled my car over and had a giant sob/wheeze attack. This was too much for me to style out at work so I turned the car around and went home. I saw my doctor again and he insisted I take a few weeks off to ‘regroup’. I’m not a fan of being off but had to admit, I needed it.
So, in summary, life has been hard. My wonderful, amazing fiance knows that I react to stress by needing a project and agreed to help me completely redecorate our bedroom. I want it to look really different than it did during my treatment. When I get out of hospital, I want a lovely, cosy place to recover. To get ready to move on. Be well. Get happy.